


Then I Shall Build You Back Again

by womanning



Series: Les Amis in Dresses [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Anal Sex, Crossdressing, Crossdressing Kink, Genderqueer Character, M/M, Roleplay, if you would like to see it that way, subjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 16:40:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/womanning/pseuds/womanning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras fulfills his promise to let Grantaire help him out of his women's clothing, Enjolras asks unexpected questions, Grantaire acts as a teacher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Then I Shall Build You Back Again

“We shall see” is the statement that ran through Grantaire’s head for the rest of the night in a voice so terribly charming. It caused a stir among his dulled thoughts while Enjolras picked roses from Prouvaire’s garden (this was Grantaire’s mockery of an idea, but it seemed to spark a real interest in Enjolras), a carousel sewn with delicate lace designs held daintily above his head (it was dark, this was for Enjolras’ own personal amusement.)

            “I’ve seemed to have pricked myself on a thorn,” Enjolras says, holding up a finger. Grantaire can just barely make out the tear of red that slinks in a line down the white digit. “Would you spare a handkerchief, monsieur? I would hate to get my own dirtied.”

            “That is what they are for, however,” Grantaire remarks.

            “Too fine a silk to mark with blood. Will you or will you not spare my your handkerchief, Grantaire? The bleeding is profuse—I fear it will drip onto my dress and leave garish stains.”

            “Certainly, Enjolras.”

            “I wish for you to call me ‘Mademoiselle’ for now.”

 

“We shall see” seems to echo the walls of the hallway as Grantaire follows Enjolras’ lead back to the other man’s bedroom. Grantaire observes with interest as Enjolras gently settles his carousel into his wardrobe and places the bouquet of various flowers in his arms into a fresh vase of water of which Grantaire presumes he had ready before Grantaire arrived earlier in the evening.

            Enjolras exhales, a quivering noise.

            “Fair Ophelia, are you faint?” Grantaire asks—a poking tone, but he finds his eyes fretting over Enjolras’ pasty face and the placement of Enjolras’ hand on Enjolras’ petit stomach.

            “I am not acquainted with the tightness, you see,” Enjolras explains, eyes closed, left hand balancing himself upon the bed. “I could never get the corset as tight as you have managed. Not on my own.”

            “And it seems for the better,” Grantaire mutters, and moves to Enjolras’ side, a hand placed upon his back. “How these contraptions do not murder women—well, I am lost for words.”

            “Get me out of it all. I have had enough of being woman today,” Enjolras says and hastily rotates himself to give Grantaire access.

            “’We shall we,’” Grantaire quotes.

            “Pardon? I request you benefit me immediately or I shall faint. Grantaire?”

            “I apologize. I was merely reminiscing a scene in which you spoke the words, ‘We shall see’ in response for a request of my own, most lewd. Ah, but, I could never . . .” He trails off, hands finding the bows of Enjolras’ dress to pull apart, unlace until Enjolras is able to tear his arms out of the sleeves and have the gown along with a slip as white as an angel’s robe fall to his feet. Grantaire’s artist eye flashes for a moment, and Enjolras appears as Aphrodite with the sea foam at her feet to him.

            But he does not mention this.

            His calloused fingers work at freeing Enjolras from the hell that is the corset’s entrapment. When his task is complete, Enjolras is sinking into the bed, a hand once around to his belly, breaths hard and constant, but at least free.

            “I could never foul a saint,” Grantaire says, looking down to the smooth panels on Enjolras’ shoulders, the pathways of thick gold strands. “Never cause the fall of an angel.”

            “You are talking in riddles, Grantaire. What is it you babble on about?” Enjolras asks, breathlessly, eyes still in the sheets of his bed.

            “The truly good die virgins, Enjolras.”

            Enjolras makes an effort to heave himself onto his elbows and then to a full standing. He looks to Grantaire. The dying candlelight has an appreciative result on Enjolras’ features. It highlights the fair hair, the blue eyes, the thick eyelashes, the aristocratic nose, the high cheekbones. Woman’s lips and a jaw that borders feminine. The flowers in his hair create a young Persephone before him.

            Grantaire, in a dazed state, touches his own face, doused with sweat and stubble, the grand, crooked nose, the rough, tanned skin. He knows he is a brute standing next not to Apollo, but Apollo’s nymph.

            Not expected from Grantaire, Enjolras says, “I thought I asked you to refer to me as ‘Mademoiselle.’”

            Grantaire runs a hand through his short, dark curls and says, “I—Well, did you not say just a moment past say that you were finished with womanhood?”

            “So I did, however I have changed my mind,” Enjolras says. “I was simply lost in the corset slowly suffocating me to death that I spoke out of line. Mademoiselle Enjolras it is until I say her time has past.”

            Grantaire cannot keep himself from staring at the man before him clothes only in undergarments, flowers looped in his unruly hair. He cannot help but ask, “What strange game is this?”

            Enjolras appears to be struck with an uncertainty. He sits upon his bed and meets eyes with Grantaire. “I have always looked womanly. I thought … Perhaps, I am married to the revolution to a harsh degree for I cannot seem to tear Enjolras the Leader away from the cause. I thought, perhaps, if I were Enjolras the Woman I could I could rest, I could explore, I could . . . I am not sure. I want to be truthful, but I fear I do not know the truth myself.”

            “That—that is alright,” is all Grantaire can muster.

            “Yes,” Enjolras says, tone returned to his assured state. “Fetch me my nightgown from my wardrobe.” Grantaire does so, opening the wooden doors and searching for what could be described as a “nightgown” and assumingly a woman’s. He finds what he supposes he is looking for, a long gown of thin, white material, practically see-through, a pink ribbon sewn at the breast area.

            “I have—”

            He is halted by the sight of an Enjolras shed of undergarments. He has seen the male body many a time before, but not quite like this, not with liquid skin and places, where if touched, would be impossibly soft. Not the man he venerated and loved.

            Grantaire forces himself to glance away, cheeks heated, arm raised towards Enjolras. “Your nightgown.”

            “I wish for you to dress me.”

            With a shake of his head, Grantaire croaks out, “I cannot, I cannot, Mademoiselle.”

            “Red Grantaire, please, I request your servitude and kindness,” Enjolras says without a thrill in his voice, without emotion—clear words.

            “I am a monstrous fellow and I am sick and I a man who aches for solitude lest I hurt the fragile bones of the angelic,” Grantaire says, madly.

            “Is the alcohol still influencing?”

            “Mademoiselle, no, I—”

            “I shall sleep naked and cold tonight then, because this man is too afraid to face a comrade in the nude.”

            “A comrade!” Grantaire scoffs. “Playing your games again.”

            Yet he turns and makes his way to Enjolras, angrily, bashfully, he drapes the nightgown over Enjolras’ head and lets it fall around Enjolras’ body.

            “Thank you,” Enjolras says softly. “Now, shed your own clothes and come to my bed, you must be tired. I do not trust you to make your way back home at this hour in your state of mind.”

            Grantaire guffaws, but Enjolras fails to make a reaction as he sinks into the sheets of his bed. Making a vow in his head, Grantaire follows Enjolras’ orders, but warily. He shifts out of his clothes until he stands in undergarments. He crosses the room and slips into beside Enjolras, feeling a light-headed and disillusioned to be in this situation.

            They are silent and Enjolras is turned away from him. Grantaire watches the candlelight as it dances on the walls with watery, tired eyes.

            “A man could throw me upon my bed, take me, and even then believe I was Eve—you said something along these lines,” Enjolras says, suddenly.

            “What?” Grantaire gazes at Enjolras’ back. “Oh, yes, I mentioned Adam, but yes.”

            A pause.

“Would you?”

            “Would I what, Mademoiselle?”

            “Would you mistake me for Eve even after haven taken me.”

            The question catches Grantaire by surprise. “I would not. I would not take you.”

            “Why do you say this?”

            “Enjolras—Mademoiselle—I said it before, I can not dirty something so pure. And you are a man.”

            Enjolras moves so that he is face to face with Grantaire now. “Do not be absurd . . . Grantaire, do you believe that if I believe I am a woman, even for this moment, God will forgive me for relations with another man?”

            “What are these questions all of a sudden? Perhaps, the green fairy still has a hold on me yet.”

            Enjolras’ intent state pierces him; Grantaire’s body feels as though his body is deflating. “Grantaire, I seek most impure comfort for one so . . . ‘pure’ as you say.”

            “Even,” Grantaire says, inhaling sharply, “even, if you were a woman, you—you are not my wife. Never a beauty marry such a ghastly creature.”

            “Your words are far too harsh,” Enjolras says. “I do not admire the way you speak of yourself, Grantaire.”

            He does not respond, a frown plagues his lips and pool of shame warms his stomach.

            Enjolras blinks at him.

            “I would take you if you would so let me,” Grantaire admits. “Utmost mercy on your part. I am greedy.”

            “I permit that mercy,” Enjolras says quietly and then with a sound of amazement he finds Grantaire’s lips upon him. Without the expected gentleness, the kiss is hard and desperate, yet Grantaire’s lips are closed and fearful. Enjolras does not know what to do, ill versed in romantic and sexual activities, and so he lets this continue and until Grantaire, finding Enjolras’ body calm and ready under him, lets his mouth take on a new arrangement. Grantaire kisses the sides of Enjolras’ mouth before telling the blond to “open his mouth and let me in.” Enjolras obliges and feels Grantaire’s mouth curve into his, feels his tongue slide against his. Enjolras makes a noise.

            “This is how you kiss, virtuous Artemis,” Grantaire says, a hint of amusement in his voice.

            Enjolras nods and they continue, slow and lasting as Grantaire needs. Grantaire’s stubble is rough on Enjolras’ mouth and chin; Enjolras’ lips are wet and warm on Grantaire’s.

            Grantaire moves to plant kisses on Enjolras’ nose, his eyes, his forehead, the flowers in his hair. His kisses go along Enjolras’ neck, down to his chest. A large finger stretches the front of Enjolras’ nightgown down for an opening to place a kiss on each girlishly pink nipple. Grantaire smiles hearing the deep, shaking breathing of Enjolras.

            He straightens upright and grasps Enjolras’ right hand, bringing it to touch against his arousal. “Do you feel this?” he asks. “This is what a man in adulthood need feels like.”

            “Yes,” Enjolras says—and what a sight, Grantaire thinks, to see Enjolras like this. Eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed not with the passion of speech, but with the pleasure of relations.

            “You make me feel like this often, Mademoiselle. With just a thought of your face—this, this will ruin me.”

            “Then I shall build you back again,” Enjolras manages.

            Grantaire eyebrows knit together and he leans down into Enjolras, hiking up his nightgown to reveal Enjolras’ own erection. “This is for me—there is no one that could put me back together again after this night.” He runs a finger down it in awe.

            Enjolras arches his hips into Grantaire’s touch. “Please . . . please . . .”

            “Stay here,” Grantaire says, resting a hand on Enjolras’ hip to settle him. He climbs out of the bed, briskly, a complaint being admitted from Enjolras, and grabs a candle and retreats from the room.

            Enjolras stares after him with astonishment. Cheeks aflame, he hoists his knees to his chin and suppresses the excitement between his legs. Grantaire returns a few minutes later—long, drawn-out minutes—with a bottle of cooking oil from the kitchen.

            “Are—are you planning on making a nightly meal?” Enjolras questions shrilly.

            Grantaire crawls back into the bed, beckoning Enjolras to lie back down. “It is necessary for penetration between men—unless you wish for me to hurt you and I will say now I will not tolerate that wish.”      

            “Penetration?” Enjolras brushes the loose hair from his face. “Grantaire the Drunkard, I am not—I am not truly a woman. I do not . . . The parts of which are needed . . . ”

            “Babbling nonsense,” Grantaire says, his wide nose crinkling. “Dear Mademoiselle, I have learned of many a scandalous thing in Paris. Men like us come to this city to commit most sinful acts with each other. Do you trust me?”

            Enjolras finds himself saying, “Yes.”

            “Then let me proceed and alert me if things go amiss for you.” Grantaire brings an arm under Enjolras’ thighs and lifts them up so to place a pillow underneath his behind. He opens the bottle of oil and pours a hefty amount onto his fingers. He pauses to look at Enjolras who stares at him curiously.

            “Are you frightened of me?” Grantaire asks, the creeping feeling of guilt making its way down his back once more.

            “I have never been frightened of you,” Enjolras says.

“Then you are a brave soul, lovely Aphrodite.” 

“Only, I am baffled.”

            “Yes, I understand.” Grantaire, however, thinks Enjolras is being incredibly docile. “Now, let me . . .”

            He moves so he is in between Enjolras’ legs and dips a finger down the line of Enjolras’ ass—he notices that without clothes it is even rounder, fuller than he expected, like a woman’s and he thinks that it could be God made an awfully decent mistake with His creation of Enjolras. Grantaire’s finger steadily pushes into Enjolras.

            Enjolras lets out a loud gasp, mouth open in an ‘O’. “This is, this is,” he stammers, “this—Grantaire—”

            “How it works—two men, this—it will feel good eventually. I would not do anything to you that would make you feel unease.”

            Enjolras swallows. “Continue.”

            He does, Grantaire works a finger in and out until he feels it is all right to add a second, watching Enjolras’ face, all tightly shut eyes, gridded exquisite teeth. He adds a third.

            Enjolras is strong.     

            He lowers his head to sweetly kiss upon Enjolras’ inner thighs, but soon he fears both he and Enjolras will burst if time is taken too slowly. He releases his fingers from Enjolras’ entrance and begins to shed his undergarments. Enjolras opens his eyes and looks to Grantaire’s erect cock.

            “I have never seen another man like this,” Enjolras says. “Seldom myself like this.”

            “I only apologize that it had to be Monsieur Grantaire,” Grantaire says, but with a chuckle. “Alright . . . Alright,” he says with finality. He positions himself at Enjolras’ entrance, big hands pulling apart Enjolras’ legs. “Alright, Mademoiselle.”

            He inhales, exhales, and begins to push in and it hits him—the moment, Enjolras under him, the matter of the act—

            (the act, the act, the act)

            Grantaire nearly falls onto Enjolras, his head sinking into the pillow next to Enjolras’ head, as his cock slides in further and Enjolras calls out.

            He retracts and slides in again, slowly, slowly, gently, the expectantly loud moans of pain and pleasure admitting from the angelic one under him, his movements become thrusts, and the moans of Enjolras now more liken to pleasure than pain.    

            “Enjolras,” he chokes out, “Enjolras.”

            Beneath him, Enjolras shakes his head, his arms now around Grantaire’s back and his nails digging. “No, no, please—”

            “I can—cannot call you anything else,” he says and clenches his teeth, grasping at the bed’s headboard.

            Enjolras does not respond with words, but encompasses Grantaire’s midsection with long, elegant legs. Grantaire reckons he has found the right spot when Enjolras starts to cry out Grantaire’s name repetitively, and he drives in harder and forgetting his kindness, relentlessly.

            It ends abruptly for Grantaire when he comes, not even with enough power to pull out as he does so. Grantaire groans into Enjolras’ ear and plants a kiss there. Enjolras makes a sound akin to a whimper beneath him and Grantaire’s hand trails down to Enjolras’ cock, taking hold. His thumb glides over the tip, wet, and pumps in rhythm until Enjolras, with an arch of his back and a shout, releases.

            They lie there for a moment, frayed from pleasure, exhaustion, but prominently shock and disbelief.

            Enjolras’ nightgown is dirtied, his hair damp, and Grantaire prays not to know of his own reflection.

            Grantaire is the first to speak:

            “I am sinful, I am ashamed, and you are a most beautiful creature.”

            He watches the rise and fall of his leader’s frail chest. “I was so oblivious and now . . . and now . . .” Enjolras licks at his lips, gazing in a haze up at the ceiling.

            “Yes?” Grantaire urges.

            The following words are quiet and as if spoken by Enjolras to Enjolras. “Perhaps, I will allow myself to be a man the next time you take me.”

            “We shall see,” Grantaire says. 

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, God bless yosb on tumblr for her Enjolras-in-dresses series.  
> Update: GOD BLESS YOSB EVEN MORE   
> http://yosb.tumblr.com/post/45622441574/badyafiction-artemis-aphrodite-les-miserables  
> http://yosb.tumblr.com/post/45653313006/badyafiction-then-i-shall-build-you-back-again  
> http://yosb.tumblr.com/post/45656627736/enjolras-exhales-a-quivering-noise-fair  
> http://yosb.tumblr.com/post/45677563348/im-the-anon-who-asked-a-day-or-two-ago-about-the


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